


Holly Jolly

by strikeyourcolors



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Bruce will regret this, Chaos reigns supreme, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Family Feels, Gen, Humor, Jason could do worse., Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikeyourcolors/pseuds/strikeyourcolors
Summary: Jason wheedles an invitation to a holiday party out of Bruce. He doesn't expect to enjoy himself, or for things to go up in flames. Literally. At least he can say he wasn't involved this time.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 166





	Holly Jolly

**Author's Note:**

> I always do a winter fic and here I am. Unbetaed and it turned out much differently than I'd originally anticipated but hopefully the holiday spirit is there!
> 
> This follows current continuity in RHatO in which Jason is legally alive and Bruce Wayne's son. Yeah, I didn't think I'd ever write it in either.

Bruce only brings cheeseburgers when he wants something. 

No, Jason thinks, that sounds more sordid than it should. And while Bruce _does_ only bring that offering when he wants something, that something can be as innocuous as an update on a missing rogue or check that Jason still all his fingers (and toes, once, in a particularly weird incident) or it can be as loaded as suggesting he come to a family therapy session or asking him where he got a new rocket launcher. 

Instead of letting the thought fill him with dread, and instead of cutting to the chase, Jason makes a game of watching Bruce squirm. They aren't on the best of terms ever, but especially lately. Too many bodies are stacking up at Jason's hands (though he'd argue it's way less than last year) and Bruce's sanctimonious decrees on how vigilantes should operate in Gotham has gone over with all the levity and usefulness of a lead balloon. 

Jason had been in a supermarket at some ungodly hour trying to decide between pizza rolls and bagel bites when he'd overheard the conversation between the dead-eyed cashier and the harried looking man buying a plethora of cleaning supplies, clad in some torn sweatpants and a pajama top. "You always love your kids," the man had said as he counted out change and wadded up cash. "But, man, you can really dislike them sometimes. That kid isn't sick. He just wanted to sleep in the bed with us and I said no so that little shit- excuse my French - puked everywhere he could. Out of _spite_."

It was impressively gross to even hear about, and Jason kind of wanted to meet the kid because spite vomiting, or at least hatred vomiting, sounded like something he would do if left with no other recourse. It wouldn't have been to get in anyone's bed, obviously, but he had more than once contemplated malicious bodily warfare against any of the Bats. He'd settled for bleeding puddles across the Cave, once, then felt guilty when he realized that Alfred was the one cleaning up his B-grade horror movie protest. 

Loving him while simultaneously really fucking disliking him seems to be where Bruce is stuck. Trapped in some purgatory of wanting to convert him to the light of good but wanting to do so by bashing his head in with a rock. He shouldn't feel a pleasant little tingle at the thought of Bruce's agony; he's trapped in his own where he's not sure if he loves, likes, respects, or ever wants to talk to any of his so-called family again. Some nights he feels like his dance card is full and he has all the social interaction he can take. Other times he longs to run a train with Dick or argue with Tim over a sci-fi show that Jason knows nothing about and the other is super into. 

But, for the time being, he has three cheeseburgers and some fries. There are onion rings in the bag, and Jason thinks he spotted one of those chocolate desserts that are gone in a thoughtless bite. He hasn't yet found any kind of connection between the amount of food Bruce brings him and the enormity of whatever he wants to talk about or do when they meet up. Instead, they sit on the edge of a building in silence, and eat. 

It was one of Jason's favorite buildings, as Robin. There's a nice little alcove built in where the wind isn't so cold. There are a lot of statues, and overhands, on the way down. Jason had always thought if he fell off the building he at least had way more opportunities to catch himself than on some newer, smooth, steel behemoth. He wasn't sure if that had been pessimism or optimism in his young mind. 

"Sooooo," Jason begins. Bruce shifts again, like his ass is getting cold or numb from how they are sitting, though he knows the suit doesn't allow for that. Hard to kick ass when yours is asleep, he guesses. 

Bruce doesn't say anything. Jason turns to stare out at the city, more alive and shining than it usually is with all the Christmas lights up. There's a tree farm that's been erected in the city, with a few others cozying up to it to try to poach customers. It makes it look like a tiny forest, or a park, nestled on the border of a bad neighborhood that would never boast such things. 

He wonders if this is some mind game Bruce is playing or new torture technique he's trying out. But, contemplating as he chews the next bite of his cheeseburger loudly, maybe not. "Shit," he says. "You're not going to tell me someone's dead or pregnant are you?"

"Chew with your mouth closed," Bruce says instantly. "No. I'm not. Why would you think that?"

Jason gestures. He has to make the motion smaller so he doesn't _actually_ fall off the building. "You send me some cryptic message about wanting to see me. We meet in a place no one else will run into us. We sit here in silence for twenty minutes. Either the shit you've got to ask me for or tell me about is serious or serious to you and- oh God. Is the dog okay?"

"The dog is fine," the older man replies. "Your first thought is really about the dog?"

"Only because the second and third are reserved for the cat and the cow, respectively," he answers chipperly. "They both cool?"

"The pets are all fine." Bruce doesn't look impressed. He stares at his hamburger like it has committed some cardinal sin against him. "You know it is Christmas time," he begins, and takes a bite. 

Jason at least has the courtesy to not roll his eyes. "I don't live under some non-holiday celebrating rock so I'm aware it's December, yes." Bruce wants to talk about Christmas. Is this all to hammer out holiday patrol schedules? It seems like overkill for him to assign Jason a time slot and Jason to tell him to fuck himself, that he'll patrol when he wants. 

"The schedule works best for us to have our family celebration either the night after or the afternoon before the gala," Bruce says steadily. "Do you have a preference?"

Oh, so not about the patrol schedule at all but about the actual get together. He always swears he won't come. He always shows up. Gifts are exchanged, no one fights, and he considers it a Christmas miracle if ever there was one. But then. "Gala?" It clicks in his mind as soon as the word is out of his mouth. Of course the Wayne Foundation always has a Christmas Gala. It has a few, in fact, but Bruce is probably referring to the last one. It's smaller, traditionally, open to friends and family and those with immensely deep pockets and an urge to see other rich people in their natural habitat. 

Bruce's expression flinches, and Jason knows he's made a mis-step. Bruce knows it too, and this child is a shark circling blood in the water. "I'm offended," Jason drawls. "That I wasn't invited." 

"You're always welcome," his surrogate father answers. "But it's very dull. You've been. I know you've always hated them." A fact he'd lamented, once, but at this moment is very clearly hoping to use to his advantage. 

"I'm your son," Jason begins. Bruce's eyes light up and he scowls and cuts him off. "Your legal, back from the dead, in the public eye son," he clarifies. It had been an absolute PR _nightmare_ for Bruce, because he and Jason were even more on the outs when the story broke, and he'd lapped of every minute of watching the billionaire try to explain the situation without sounding hateful or stupid. The minutes had been few; for a long time there had simply been no comment from anyone associated with Bruce Wayne on the emergence of his legally dead son. "It would be a shame if I wasn't there, wouldn't it? All the reporters gossiping that your adopted son sat alone on the night of your swanky Christmas party, crying and sipping a sixty-nine cent coffee on a park bench while lamenting his bad relationship with-"

Bruce gasps. "You wouldn't." 

Jason smiles. "That depends." He drops a hand into the bag, groping around until he withdraws an onion ring. He deposits it between his teeth and chomps down on it, making eye contact with the hero. 

Bruce is no doubt trying to calculate how easily he could cancel the party, or move it to some covert location. Underground bunker Christmas party would be a great theme, now that Jason thinks of it. But his shoulders slump, almost imperceptibly. He knows that Jason would take that as a challenge. Sometimes he hates how _well_ Bruce knows him but at the moment it benefits him. "What do you want?"

The vigilante makes a show of considering. "An invitation. Not that one should be necessary. I am family, after all." 

It doesn't get the level of reaction he was expecting, which was any. "And?" 

He clutches a hand dramatically over his heart, though he ruins the effect by sucking the rest of the onion ring into his mouth. "I'm wounded you think I would want anything else."

Bruce looks completely unconvinced and that seems right on the money. “Where should I send it?” Jason isn't sure, suddenly, if he's fallen into a trap. The man gave in so easily. Is he getting soft or is there some ulterior motive in mind?

“Send it to my office,” Jason says flippantly. “I have a girl who takes care of that kind of thing.” It's a phrase he's heard Bruce use. 

Bruce clearly recognizes it as such. “A girl for that kind of thing?”

Jason grins. “A boy, actually, because I'm not a sexist and don't want some pretty thing in a short skirt bending over my desk all day. At least, not if she's getting paid as a secretary.” 

The dismay on his adoptive father's face is entirely worth the fact he may have just invited himself into a proverbial corner.  
The gala is held in a partially renovated hotel. It's going to become a boutique affair, with only fifty rooms. Probably it will be ludicrously expensive for a tiny amount of space, like the hotels in New York City. As it is, the old building is only renovated on the bottom and first floors. The lobby area is almost industrial in feel, contrasting to the opulent grand ball room. Jason likes it, but then again, he would keep the plastic sheets visible in the windows that will become the second floor, and the stray nail or pile of bricks that remain where the contractor didn't quite clean up well enough for such a party.

Rather than deal with the red carpet hubub (seriously, do people in this town have any better news to report?), he sneaks in through the side. He tells himself that it's because he has a penchant for stealth and dramatic appearances and not because he doesn't want questions as to why he didn't arrive with the rest of his supposed family. 

He's a little late; he'll pretend that was by design rather than an inability to choose something to wear. It's not black tie. The year he went when he was a teenager there was some bizarre mix of women freezing in strapless evening gowns and men roasting in bulky Christmas sweaters and looking like dogs in cones that desperately wanted to scratch. This year it seems to be suits, not tuxedos, with the odd renegade going without a jacket. Some of the women are in evening gowns, but not the floor-length, corseted affairs of something more formal. 

He slides in through an unrenovated hallway and edges into the lobby like he's always been there. He should have stolen a drink to look more like he belonged, but no waiters seem to be circulating in the atrium. 

Oddly, it's Barbara Gordon who spots him first. She breaks away from where she was involved in what seemed like an amiable but obligatory discussion with two older men; cops or former cops, Jason thinks by the look of them. She's definitely not corseted and her dress only brushes her knees. It's red; normally he feels that should look terrible on a redhead but she manages to pull it off. She gives him a hug. 

It shouldn't be strange. They can publicly acknowledge one another, after all, and it's well-known that she'd tutored him once upon a time. Her breasts press against his chest and she's so warm or maybe it's that he got cold traipsing through the unheated hallways. She presses her cheek to his, which seems like those false kisses society women give, except she murmurs "What've you got planned for tonight?"

It isn't reproachful. It isn't sordid. There's a genuine curioisity on her pretty face. She's always liked information and that hasn't changed. There are things he could respond with that might get a distrustful look or even a scolding word but she's strayed from the path Bruce set out for them too. Perhaps not as drastically, but her moral highground is shaky at best. It pulls at those long-ago inklings of a crush, of that want for her attention to be showered upon him, but they're both grown now. 

"Wouldn't you like to know, Babsy?" He teases in return. 

Her eyes narrow. She gives him a look that makes his heart flutter because he loves being a pain on someone's ass. "I would," she replies flatly. "That's why I asked." 

He grins at her because he's trying to come up with something scandalous and near impossible to boast to her. He's saved from having to spin an outlandish tale by the arrival of her father. He puts a hand on the small of Barbara's back and she stiffens, ever so slightly, before she sees who it is. Jason's seen the scars on her. He sympathizes. "Jason," Jim greets him. "Would you tell Barbara that her shoes match her outfit perfectly well and she doesn't have to run home and change them?"

Jason glances down. She's wearing high-heels, which is rare, though they aren't hazardously high. They are green and sequined. 

"I thought they'd look festive," Barbara explains. "But now I just feel like some kind of elf." 

"You'd be an adorable elf," Jim replies and rests a hand on the back of her head fondly before breaking off. Jason used to be jealous of that kind of parenting. He also learned, eventually, that Bruce did a lot of copying of the parenting style of Jim Gordon without seeming to realize he was doing it. For all he loved Alfred, he didn't really imagine the man raised Bruce with a lot of physical affection. "Did you say hello to the Millers?"

Barbara glances over to a portly older couple. "I will in a minute." 

"Don't disappear. Or go to get your shoes without telling me," Jim says. "It was nice to see you, Jason."

Jason gives half a wave as the man leaves them, but his gaze strays back to those sparkling, green shoes. "Did the Wicked Witch of the West decide to have a new pair made or-"

"For that you owe me a dance and I will step on your feet whenever possible," the redhead replies sweetly. "By the way your _dad_ and _brothers_ are looking for you. I know you'll want to give them all hugs and kisses." 

She's an evil woman, but the idea of having to run home due to a fashion crisis instead of Batgirl business is a good one. 

~*~*~

He makes a game of seeing how long he can avoid any of his family. As he roams around he realizes that he doesn't know any of these people. He recognizes a few faces here and there, some from when he was a kid, some from more recent contact. But, even being invited to some high society functions, he doesn't run in the same crowds as the Waynes do. 

Tim had explained to him once about the different circles of rich people in Gotham. He'd mentioned that he'd met Bruce and Dick at some event or another, but that his parents didn't really have liquid assets to give to charity and were more interested in intellectual pursuits instead of frivolity. They were wealthy at one point beyond Jason's wildest imaginings at the age Tim had been back then. But they weren't well-connected rich people. 

During the explanation, Jason had pretended to be bored and ignore him. He'd only made a couple of biting comments before he realized that it was a bit of a source of contention for Tim, as much as his own parents' status had been to him. Of course, Tim had parents who gave him Christmas presents and loved him in a functional way. He probably had more of a right to be tender over their mistreatment than Jason did about his jailbird father and drug-addled mother. 

He has snatched some champagne off a tray, and been through the buffet line twice, by the time someone catches up to him. It's Dick. Of course it's Dick. He probably shimmied through the crowd, waxed a banister with his ass, and swung from the light fixture to get to him. "Jay!" 

He has a cream puff in his mouth, whole. He looks like a chipmunk. Dick was clearly waiting until this moment to strike and he considers spitting the entire dessert onto him. It becomes a real possibility he will do so accidentally when Dick embraces him into the most crushing hug ever. His ribs creak in protest. He can't breathe through the pressure on his lungs, the cream puff in his mouth, and the strength of Dick's cologne. He squirms like a helpless fish, like he had when he was thirteen years old and not taller and broader than Dick. 

"We were worried you wouldn't make it! Business on your own is tough, isn't it?" He flashes that dazzling smile, showing teeth that are real and some that are indistinguishably fake. It means that there's someone listening, someone close by who needs this act. 

Jason chews, swallows, washes down the lump of pastry in his throat with champagne that is too expensive to be used for such a purpose. He has a choice to make. Behave for a photo opportunity? Bolster his business and social status? Or bring this entire party crashing down around him?

There was a time his self-destructive side would have insisted he ninja flip Dick into the chocolate fountain to their left. He's proud that he can resist that side of himself, though he does dig his fingers into the soft part of Dick's belly between the swells of his rib cage. It's kind of a threat, but more proof that he can take him down and is choosing not to. 

“The punch is spiked,” Dick murmurs as he pulls back. His eyes are twinkling, but his gaze is suspicious. Jason's impressed he can do that. 

“Don't look at me, I just got here.” Jason glances around, looking for any children, but other than Damian, there aren't any present. It is a little past their bedtimes, probably. If there aren't children to get unintentionally drunk, he's all for a little fun for the adults. “How long do I stay, anyway? Like what's appropriate?”

Dick grins. “Aw, are you asking me for etiquette tips after you wheedled yourself an invite? That's adorable.” 

“You think,” Jason says slowly, enunciating every word “That I wont stick your head in under that chocolate drinking fountain and hold you there until it suffocates you.” 

“That'd not drinking chocolate, it's for dipping. The hot chocolate bar is over there,” Dick replies. “But if I have to die, there are worse ways to go.” 

Jason can't argue with that.

~*~*~  
It's not a bad party, all things considered. There's a silent auction for charity. Funds to carry organizations into the new year. The hot chocolate bar has both cinnamon and coconut. He sees a woman dump whipped cream down the front of her dress in front of her very entranced husband. He makes a swift retreat when she makes eye contact. 

He says hello to Alfred who blends in with the outer rungs of society almost as well as he does. You'd pass him over if you weren't looking. Curtains. Window. Tasteful painting. Butler. House plant. 

When they have to pair off into teams for a Christmas carol guessing game, he's surprised that Tim Drake grabs his arm to pair off with him. The grasp is quick, and he releases him instantly afterward. Once burned twice shy. Or once stabbed, in this case. Maybe twice stabbed. Hell, who can remember how many blows he's given to this particular former Robin?

The question must be written on his face because Tim says “It's you or Damian and the last time we played a party game he bit me and I had to get a tetanus shot.” 

“Does he have rusty metal teeth or something?”

“Tetanus is usually carried in soil and, no, the tetanus shot was for said dirt that he ground into the wound afterward.” 

“Shit,” Jason says, dragging out the vowel sound. “And I thought I had issues. But I promise I won't bite you. I may, however, offer to sell you or pitch you off a balcony if it's in the best interests of our team.” 

Tim shrugs. “Fair enough. The first answer is 'It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.'” 

Jason stares up at the game card, projected on each wall. They have little paper slips to write the answers on. “Is the goal to be the fastest or the most accurate? I wasn't listening.” None the less, he's scribbling out Tim's words. 

“Mix of both. Even if we win the prize is going to a guest though.” Tim frowns at the puzzle. “He could have at least tried to make this a little bit hard.” 

“Why are we playing if we can't win?” Jason asks .

“Photo ops,” Tim replies. “Keeping our skills sharp. Passing the time until we can quietly disappear. Pick one.” 

“Noel,” replies Jason. “There no l in the alphabet in that picture. Noel.” 

“If we were playing for real we would kick everyone else's ass,” Tim mutters, and Jason thinks he smells like punch. 

After the game (which they would have won by a large margin), there's dancing. It's probably to keep everyone awake and judge how drunk everyone is. Jason's tickled when Barbara turns down Bruce to dance with him instead. They sway and spin, uncoordinated, but more sober than probably half the dance floor. She steps on his feet purposefully a few times and he tries not to feel flattered, because he knows she dances with all of Bruce's sons. It's just been a while since he's been acknowledged as such. 

He's interrupted from either kissing Barbara or trying to make her fall on her face by a squeal from the corner of the room. He expects some matron having seen a mouse. Instead he's greeted by the sight of two of the lit candles decorating a display tipped onto their sides. He has enough time to think she's stupid for screaming and wonder why she doesn't just pick them up when the entire display erupts into flames. 

“Huh,” Jason says. “Don't see a burning snowman very often.” 

The high heel slamming into the arch of his foot is definitely on purpose but fortunately no one hears him yell the profanity he does with all the other screaming going on. Barbara is already moving to help, like every vigilante in the place seems to be. It must be a universal superhero thing that they run toward danger; none of them have great survival instincts. 

It means that Jason is one of the few people left on his side of the room when there's another scream. “You BASTARD!” 

This isn' t an elderly matron. Jason recognizes her from the tabloids he swears he doesn't read. Her white-blonde hair is supposedly natural. He'd had to have the girl where he buys his coffee explain what 'pillow-faced' meant when he heard it used to describe the socialite. He knows she's rich, but relatively benevolent, and that probably doesn't make her as awful as most rich people in this town. Her name is Dusti. He remembers too, thinking her name didn't suit her sparkling appearance which was probably the point of such branding. 

The man standing with Dusti is already dripping fluid. It smells like wine, and looks dark enough to be the red that was available earlier. Standing somewhere behind him and looking now terrified is one of the waitstaff. Her uniform is disheveled, her makeup is smeared, and Jason would take bets on if she's going to piss herself, burst into tears, or take off running. 

Dusti grabs a tray of crab puffs off the table and flings them at the man immediately. “You fucking asshole! You can't give me one night where you don't humiliate me!” The crab puffs are gone. She advances on him, lifting the tray high, and Jason knows a potential household item based homicide when he sees one. Dusti's small, but he's very confident she would be able to beat someone to death with a silver serving tray in a fit of rage. 

Those observing that scene are just staring, mouths agape. Jason feels like the stupidest person alive as he rushes toward them. “Hey, hey! Don't hit him! I know he deserves it and I'm sure he sucks but-” But he doesn't really have a good ending for that. He'd probably beat the guy to death too. “But look at all these witnesses,” he completes. “There's a photographer or two in this crowd.” 

Dusti looks stricken. The tray lowers and Jason would swear she's positioning it to be used as a lighting screen. “Witnesses?” She says at last. 

“I'll swear he poured the wine on himself and rolled in the appetizers if you don't take this any further.” This isn't his strong suit. Usually he's encouraging people to do the stupid things instead of dissuading them. “Everyone's distracted by a literal fire over there to notice your social dumpster fire if you want to slip out the back.” 

Dusti is the one to start to cry first, surprisingly. Her cheating date is still on the floor where he's fallen on a slick patch of floor. The waitress is standing there trembling. Jason doesn't look at her stockings for any telltale wet places. “This consensual?” He asks her gruffly. 

She looks desperately between then and nods an affirmative. Jason sighs. “Okay, you're fired. Pack up your shit and leave.” At first she doesn't move and he points out the nearest door and barks “Out!” 

She scrambles away. He makes certain to give her a head start lest Dusti track her down and decide a hallway is a private enough place for murder. There's a lot of serving forks around this place. “Go out the side door to the valet,” Jason suggests to Dusty, thrusting several festively colored napkins at her. “Wipe your face.” 

The woman stumbles away. Jason hauls up the man by the arm as the remaining catering staff swarms to clean up the carnage of wine and food before anyone else slips. “You get the walk of shame out the front door.” 

“I could stay-” the man protests. “I was attacked-” 

“Yeah, you're definitely going.” He gestures to a man. The man is dressed exactly like the guests, but Jason's been watching him. He knows plain clothes security when he sees it. “Help him find his car.” 

By the time he's done sorting that mess out, the fire is extinguished and the area is being swiftly cleaned. 

“Well!” Bruce says, his voice carrying over the hush that's fallen in the ballroom. “That isn't the yule log I imagined!” There are scattered laughs and a visible ease of tension in the room. Jason has to hand it to Bruce; he knows how to ease these situations. “If everyone will continue out to the rear garden, we have a little bonfire of our own to end the night.” 

The guests begin to trail out. Jason isn't sure he wants to join a bunch of half-drunk people making s'mores or whatever and lingers behind. It's a mistake. He feels a hand on his shoulder and it could only be one person. 

“You contained that nicely,” Bruce compliments. “If I didn't know everything, I wouldn't have even noticed what happened.” 

Jason gasps. “Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?”

Bruce might be rolling his eyes. It's hard to tell since Jason isn't looking directly at him. “I have been known to do that. I assume you'll be ducking out now?”

“Yeah,” Jason admits. “Got some stuff to get done. Busy holidays and all.” 

“I'm sure. Though you also must be aware it's rather likely someone is going to set themselves on fire, if you want to witness that.” 

It's another joke. Jason tries not to snort, but it's tough. “Get me the security footage if it does happen.” He feels a touch. Light, alarmingly so, against his jacket pocket. His fingers grope instantly, because he wonders if it's some sort of sloppy tracker. Instead he feels a little card. 

“Another invitation,” Bruce says. “Smaller than this, with better catering. We're doing Christmas Eve for family things, if that's alright. Six sharp. Christmas Day to be decided.” 

He hesitates. He hopes it comes off as nonchalant and condescending instead of that he's genuinely touched that this wasn't a message relayed from Bruce to Dick to Alfred to Jason, potentially with a few stops in between. “Yeah. Sure. I'll be there. Want me to bring anything?”

Bruce looks sharply at him, then his features relax. “We have it handled, don't worry.” 

“Hm,” the younger man agrees. “Where's Damian, by the way? I wanted to say hello.” 

“He installed a zip line in the half-finished atrium and is in there trying to decide how to best lure Dick or Tim in to ambush them,” Bruce replies with a shrug. “You're welcome to go be his first victim if you'd like.”

Jason is struck by how much Bruce knows and doesn't tell them, but damned if he'll admit that to the man. “Yeah, I'll take a hard pass on that too. Goodnight.” 

They hug. Sort of. It's awkward, and Jason's arm is trapped between them, and Bruce doesn't really know how to put any give into his body, but they manage it. Jason catches Alfred to give him a handshake that somehow has more affection in it, and takes his leave to go and patrol his part of the city. 

In the morning, the photo of him hugging Bruce is in the newspaper.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading as always and happy holidays. If you enjoyed this and want more festivities, "Merry and Bright", "Winter Song", and "Mistlefoe" are also holiday-based. I'm on discord and [ tumblr](http://strikeyourcolors.tumblr.com/ask) if you'd like to get into contact!


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